In the 1960s to early ’70s, my mother, sister, and I were living the cliché. Packed into a red Volkswagen Beetle, we took to the open roads snaking across the country from Hollywood, Florida to St. Louis, Missouri for our annual summer vacation. We stuffed the frunk (front trunk) with sturdy suitcases and bags full of mangoes, grapefruit, and avocados from our backyard that steadily ripened in the searing heat. The odor each morning was so repellent we had to air out the car before driving away from the motel.

But once we got underway, the meandering back roads led us through quaint country towns like we never saw in Florida, over rolling farmland lush with summer crops, into one-radio-station no man’s lands where a farm auction or Paul Harvey was the only thing on, and to hours of charades, license plate games, car bingo, daydreams, and imagination.

One and a half days into our 3-day odyssey, in Hardin, Kentucky, stood The Hitching Post & Old Country Store—an oasis of marvels with cool drinks to quench our thirst, a Conestoga wagon and stocks for fun photos, and shelves and shelves of trinkets and knick-knacks to mesmerize any child with an allowance to spend. But all those wonders paled in comparison to the mysteries of the grab bags heaped in a basket near the cash register.

I was always enthralled by the unknown: Nancy Drew was my heroine and Adam West’s Batman was my muse (what could be more enigmatic than a superhero with his eyebrows on the outside of his mask?). So, I was instinctively drawn to those unmarked, brown packages. By the age of 8, I was a hard-core grab bagger. Picking each up in turn, I carefully weighed the pros and cons of every box. The long one could be a doll or maybe a necklace; the short one a smaller doll, earrings, or maybe a stuffed animal….such wonderful treasures danced in my imagination.

As we pulled away from The Hitching Post, I’d open the box and peek inside. Of course it was never something as magical as a doll or a secret box. My mother, watching through the rear view mirror as tears rimmed my eyes, always had ready comfort: my father would like the reproduction antique bottles; the corn dish would be perfect for pickles and olives on the dinner table.

Ah, the corn dish!

One year, to my elation, I actually did discover a doll in the package, and back at home I added it to my collection. I now realize that it was one of those celluloid numbers with the glued-on clothes, creepy open-and-close eyes, and nightmarish haircut. It is long gone, but the corn dish still stands on a shelf of my kitchen breakfront.

Its shiny paint has not been faded by pickle or olive brine or from repeated washings. The rim has suffered no chips. In fact, the dish may only have been used once or twice—that first summer. But the corn dish is one of my favorite possessions. For me it symbolizes many things—and what kind of reader/writer would I be if I did not find symbolism in even the most common household objects?

Dipping into a grab bag represented everything life is supposed to be: unknown and unknowable until you explore, a little scary but thrilling, random, sometimes disappointing, always surprising…

And the corn dish? For me it symbolizes persistence in the face of disappointment (the life blood of any hopeful writer), longevity, compassion, idealism, hope, and humor.

I joke with my kids that the corn dish will one day be their inheritance, but really I couldn’t wish to hand down a better heirloom.

Socrates famously stated that the unexamined life is not worth living for a human. Dogs, koala bears, snails, and other such creatures get a free pass, which explains a lot about why they always seem so happy—or at least nonchalant: Do I want to roll around in this mud puddle? Yes! Should I? Yes! Will I? Yes!

I was reminded of the great philosopher’s wise words recently when I delved into a yellowed Banana Republic bag full of my past that my mother has kept in her attic all this time. There, nestled within two bulging manila folders, was 16 years worth of scrutiny—all of my report cards going back to preschool; the results of IQ tests and Achievement Tests taken every two years throughout elementary school; my SAT scores; dance class evaluations, girl scout records, and—most horrific of all—every class picture from age 4 to 18. Yes, all the discomfort one could want (to escape) in one tidy package.

As I thumbed through all the numbers, letters, pictures, and brief comments that summed up my youth without actually adding up to it, I realized that reviewing this kind of material takes a certain dogness or koala bearness of mind:

Do I want to be able to look at the picture of myself in that dress with the 1600s Pilgrim collar without cringing? Yes! Can I? No! Did you want the popular pixie hair cut in 7th grade? Yes! Should you have gotten it? No! Can you look at that school picture without wanting to run for the matches? No!

Well, I guess it takes some work to achieve true dogness. I’m determined to reach that plateau, though, so as part of my ongoing journey, I’ve decided to let go and let You:

My Pre-kindergarten class picture

This is where it all began.

On the bulletin board behind the class are these paint blots. Are they Rorschach tests? Or early prototypes for the Orphan Black logo?

My Kindergarten report card

Here are all the skills that were to set me on the right road in life. Did I learn them? My report is a bit contradictory. Under comments I “measure up in every way.” But the report of my readiness test states that I am “Apparently very well equipped for first grade work.” “Apparently?” All I can say is that I still paste neatly and I try.

Stop the Presses! The Hollywood Sun-Tattler, page 8

My one shot at fame and they spelled my name wrong. If I didn’t know the technology was a few years off, I’d say my head was Photoshopped onto some other girl’s body. The picture’s caption offers its own interpretation of our faces, but I think my expression forecast a hope that I was waiting to get a neck.

My 5th Grade school picture

A perm was the answer for a little girl with stick-straight hair. And what’s up (unfortunately way up) with my bangs?

I’d rather sit it out, thanks

I was not a natural tapper—couldn’t snap my head on a spin to save my life—and this progress report from Ron Daniel’s Academy of Dance seems to politely bear that out. I may have improved 100% week to week, but, really, 100% of awkward is still awkward.I was also struck by the use of the universal male pronoun in the letter to the parents. As far as I remember, there were never any boys in our classes.

?????

I never, ever remember being on any sports team. At recess I was a strong volleyball server and, despite my height, was good at nabbing basketballs out of the air. Could I have been on some team? The world will never know.

Now here’s a sport I was good at—but a roller skating proficiency award? Now that I think back, I do vaguely remember demonstrating my skills in a darkened rink with reality-distorting lighting and mind-bending music (Delta Dawn – Helen Reddy and Bad Bad Leroy Brown – Jim Croce to name just two.)Examiner: “Skate forward…Now, skate backward. You’re proficient!”

One of my High School Report Cards

Isn’t all math anal? Oh, wait…that was Analytical Geometry! While I’ve never used the math I learned in that class, I do remember Mr. Gulla making it fun by dancing around and singing, “Sine sine cosine sine” and “Cosine cosine sine sine.” He also answered complainers with a pithy, “Am I wearing a ‘life is fair’ button?” Now, those lessons I have often used. This report card also includes my beloved Modern European History class with Mr. Wilson for which I won the annual award. Now, that was an award I worked for and remember.

The Numbers Game

A smattering of numbers comparing me to other kids. Who were these “other kids,” what were they really like, and do dogs and snails have to go through this?

A Breakthrough

After much Laughter Therapy, Blasé Meditation, and a kibble diet, I have reached a certain level of puppyness and am able to release this picture of me in the Pilgrim collar.

Now that the frenzy of Black Friday and the clamor of Cyber Monday have abated and the emails clogging my inbox reveal that I would have gotten a larger discount if I’d just waited until Total-up Tuesday or We-didn’t-sell-as-much-as-we-thought-we-would Wednesday, it’s time to turn my attention to other holiday-inspired activities. One of the perks of living in the Northeast is the ability to cut your own Christmas tree. To go out into the (albeit farmer-made) forest and chop down a perfectly pruned pine just like our ancestors did, is one of the joys of the season.

Maple Lane Farms must be one of the most beautiful cut-your-own Christmas tree farms in the Northeast.

As many of you know I grew up in South Florida, where the Christmas trees on offer were trucked in on October 1st from some “real” Christmas state like Vermont. They then hung out in parking lots all across town huddled together like delinquent teenagers and were on their last stump when they finally went on sale. This doesn’t mean, however, that they were lacking in fight. Surviving on the mean streets of Hollywood, meant these trees had to be tough. Their needles were stiff and as sharp as fangs, which made hanging the lights and ornaments a masochistic affair akin to crocodile wrestling. By the end of the day, my sister’s and my arms were red and scratched and our eyes teary. But it was tradition.

This crocodile tree looks so pretty decorated for the season.

You might think that holiday traditions were sparse in such a non-wintery place, but you’d be wrong. In fact these same beasts were the gifts that kept on giving. Instead of softly falling snowflakes, my sister, Jen, and I listened in the quiet of the night to the plink, plink of needles dropping onto our Cuban tile floor. And on December 26th those needle banks were the site of our favorite annual event—the Pine Needle Sweep. With the tree nearly bare, Jen and I crawled through the piles on the floor shoveling as many needles as we could into baggies. Whoever had the fullest baggie won. I don’t remember what we won, but I do remember the pure thrill of the sport.

Despite these heartfelt memories, when the price of real Christmas trees began to climb, my parents decided it was time to buy an artificial one. I guess it wasn’t bad compared to other artificial Christmas trees of the 1970s. If I remember correctly, each bough hooked into its own hole on rings strategically placed along the “trunk” and the “needles” were anemic imitations of their authentic counterparts. Of course, this tree didn’t maul us, but where was the fun in that? No crying? It hardly seemed like Christmas.

At least, though, our artificial tree was green. Our neighbors across the street displayed an aluminum tree in their picture window. They “decorated” it by bathing it in light from a multi-colored revolving disk so that the tree flashed red, green, orange, blue, red, green, orange, blue, red, green…well, you get the idea…all night long. My sister and I, being sent to bed at some ridiculously early hour like 7:30 (really, we weren’t that bad—Santa knows, after all), used to kneel on our beds and watch this troubling, but oddly fascinating holiday extravaganza for hours (it was probably only 20 minutes, but that’s like 3 hours in kid time).

So when I moved north, I happily adopted the tradition of “cut your own” Christmas tree. The unpredictable eccentricities of nature, however, can create…um…challenges. First, there’s the weather. Some years the air is pleasantly cold—just enough to make it feel like winter. Maybe there are even a few snowflakes swirling in the breeze for that Currier and Ives atmosphere. Then there are the bitter years when the temperature and the wind conspire to freeze you like the Winter Warlock in my fave animated Christmas special Santa Clause Is Coming to Town. Yeah, let’s all sing together—“Put one foot in front of the other, and cut down the first tree you see-ee-eee! Put one foot in front of the other, and soon we’ll be ba-ack in the car!!”

The second trial Mother Nature presents is the tree itself. Once, knee deep in snow and with a baby in tow, we chose what we thought was a nicely shaped, full bodied fir. But as we stuffed it into the car and secured it with bungee cords, my suspicions should have been up. And sure enough, as soon as we brought it into the house, the tree showed its true character. Like some out-of-control party guest, it dominated the family room, swallowed five strings of lights, and laughed maniacally at our measly ornaments—the entire collection of which only covered a tiny fraction of its branches.

Like the crocodile trees of my youth, it had spunk. It was jealous of the baby, swatting at him whenever he came near, and it drank copious amounts of water. I now know that it was staying fit for the nefarious purpose of escape. Twice during the night we heard disturbing noises coming from downstairs. In the morning we found the tree sprawled on the floor, no doubt tripped up by the coffee table as it tried to run for the back door. The only way we could subdue it was to tie it to nearby furniture with rope.

On October 7th South Miami officials passed a resolution with a vote of 3-2 to split Florida in half, and make South Florida our nation’s 51st state. I say it’s about time. As my faithful readers know, I grew up in Hollywood, Florida, and have borne the scars ever since. Yeah, most of them are from mosquito bites I shouldn’t have scratched, but the others are deeply etched in my psyche and impossible to eradicate—kind of like the cockroach that once emerged from under our sofa dragging the roach motel (“roaches check in but they don’t check out”) behind him with one leg.

I empathize with the local politicians. South Florida and North Florida are as different as alligators and crocodiles; they may seem the same, but I assure you they are not. For one thing alligators are memorialized with a state highway (Alligator Alley), and crocodiles are celebrated in song (Crocodile Rock). South Florida has beautiful waterways; white, sandy beaches; and, most recently, the woman who set her boyfriend on fire in retaliation for his throwing away her spaghetti dinner. North Florida spawned the beloved phrase “Don’t tase me, bro,” educated the man who asked Siri how to dump a body, and….umm….who knows? The only things I remember about northern Florida while driving in and out of the state during summer vacations were the violent thunder storms and blinding rain that hit as soon as we were in sight of the “Welcome to Florida, the Sunshine State” sign.

Miami’s Vice Mayor Walter Harris states that the pols in Tallahassee don’t understand the environmental concerns of the south. This is probably true—for unless you live it, you can’t possibly comprehend it. One danger facing South Florida is the rising sea level due to climate change. In the north they may think this means better surfing. But southerners know that it won’t be long before way-too-revealing itty-bitty swimsuit-wearing tourists will be forced inland and, like the walking dead, wander downtowns in search of beaches that have been swallowed by the ocean.

Those northern bureaucrats also don’t have to manage the Everglades, where pythons the length of three Jane Lynches or four Kristen Chenoweths and capable of swallowing an entire deer whole slither around at will. Although police in the north did recently have to arrest a naked 500-pound man who couldn’t fit into the cruiser—so who’s to say where the real weirdness lies.

All I can say is, “Ai Ai Ai!”Image courtesy Care2

Miami’s Mayor Philip Stoddard went even further than Harris, expressing his frustration this way: “It’s very apparent that the attitude of the northern part of the state is that they would just love to saw the state in half and just let us float off into the Caribbean. They’ve made that abundantly clear at every possible opportunity, and I would love to give them the opportunity to do that.”

If the north is actually sharpening its saws, they might find another willing participant in Colin Woodard, who in late 2013 wrote the book American Nations: A History of the Eleven Rival Regional Cultures of North America. Woodard suggests that America can be divided into The Left Coast, The Far West, El Norte, The Midlands, Yankeedom, Greater Appalachia, New Netherland, Tidewater, New France, and The Deep South.

Where does South Florida fit into his vision of America? Nowhere, that’s where. While Woodard includes the northern counties of Florida in The Deep South, the southern counties are only mentioned in a parenthesis floating in the Atlantic that reads (Part of the Spanish Caribbean).

To this I take exception. Yes, the north has St. Augustine and the Fountain of Youth and lays claim to the oldest jail, oldest wooden schoolhouse, oldest drugstore, and oldest house. But South Florida trumps that with the oldest oldies and so much more!

Would not America be much less rich without South Florida’s Monkey Jungle, Parrot Jungle, Jungle Island, and the JungleQueen Riverboat? In fact, any citizen of this swampy landmass could enclose a patch of ground and proudly create his or her own Lizard Jungle, Anole Jungle, Assassin Bug and his sidekick Masked Hunter Jungle (lovely), Hag Moth Jungle (lovelier), Horse Lubber Grasshopper Jungle (one of my personal favorites since we basically had one of these attractions in our backyard, and I could tell that spring had sprung when the odor of these grasshoppers’ “spit” filled the air), Spiny Backed Orb Weaver Jungle (another “favorite” that appeared everywhere in our yard. Empty “orbs” of these spiders were the most frightening because you never knew if the spiky, dangerous creatures were crawling up your arm or your back).

The Assassin–known for its horrible sting…

…and its sidekick Masked Hunter!!

This creature is so sturdy you could put a leash on it and keep it as a pet. The “puppies” start out black with a red or yellow line running down the center of their back.

Beware the prongs of this dreaded predator!!Images courtesy Wikimedia Commons

So you can see that South Florida could more than hold its own as the 51st state. But two questions remain—where would the border be drawn and what would the new state be called?

Mayor Stoddard has designated a dividing line along Brevard, Orange, Polk, Hillsborough, and Pinellas counties. This area includes the South Florida Water Management district; Lake Okeechobee, a major source of the state’s water; and Disney World. The politicians’ plan may sound foolish, but they’re no fools.

Here is how the map of a divided Florida would look. You’ll notice the little jog to collect Disney World, hereafter to be known as Fantasy Jungle.Image courtesy of Charles Minshew, Sun Sentinel

But what to name the new state? As a fan of anagrams, I wondered if scrambling the letters of South Florida would provide any possibilities. I was not disappointed:

Hairdo Flouts: if there’s one thing I remember from my time in Florida, it’s women—and men—flouting their hair. Of course it was the time of luxurious locks ala Farrah Fawcett and young Shawn Cassidy.

Who could live up to this?

Unfortunately, my hair tended more toward his than hers…but even this amount of “poofyness” was out of my reach.

Hi Fraud Tools/Hi Fraud’s Loot: Since South Florida is a hotbed of illicit activity, I thought either of these might fit the bill.

Ooh! Tidal Surf: I was never a surfer chick, but the high number of bronze bodies that ride the waves puts this one in the running.

Dilators of Uh…: It must be the hot sun (or maybe number 2 above) that fries so many brains, but South Florida has more of than its share of wide-eyed, lights- are-on-but-nobody’s-home residents.

Oh Adrift Soul: for the poetic-minded

Uh…Adrift Solo: for the truly lost

Or, simply, as my daughter Jenny suggested:

Crazy Town

Creating a new state takes an act of Congress, so I implore you to write your congresswoman or man and register your vote to make South Florida the new star on our flag. With your help, this nation may just become a little crazier.

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I was never particularly nostalgic for the songs of my youth, rarely playing them at home or in the car. Of course it may have something to do with the fact that I came of age in the 1970s, and while there was some excellent music produced during those years, my memory seems fixated on the disco and novelty songs of the time. Perhaps nowhere did disco reign as supreme as in South Florida. Hialeah, right next door to my hometown of Hollywood was the birthplace of KC and the Sunshine Band (“That’s the Way (I Like It)”,” Shake Shake Shake (Shake Your Booty)”, “I’m Your Boogie Man,” “Get Down Tonight,” and “Please Don’t Go,”—Ya know, I’d forgotten how many hits they had), and Donna Summer owned a beach house in Venice, FL. I vividly remember when her version of “MacArthur Park” was the most requested song on the local radio station for about 100 weeks in a row in 1978. Miami loved Donna Summer.

I also find it hard to pine for such musical oddities as Jim Stafford’s “Spiders and Snakes” (Remember an America where this kind of song could make you a star? Yeah, me neither) and “My Girl Bill,” which finally got people talking about a very important issue: the proper placement of commas.

So I was satisfied with now and then catching a song from my past while scanning the shelves at Michael’s arts and crafts supply store or trawling the aisles of Stop & Shop (the only place, by the way, that you can still hear Taylor Dayne). The kids kept the car radio on the local Top 40 stations, and that was fine with me, as I love pop music.

Then I found 98.7, a good 70s and 80s “oldies” (I categorically reject that description) radio station that I sometimes listened to when driving alone to Target or Stop & Shop. When my daughter, Jenny, rode with me, she controlled the selections, scanning through our preset buttons to find a song we wanted to listen to. She would always skip over the oldies station or, if she hit the button by mistake, scan away from it as reflexively as if she’d touched a spider (I guess Jim Stafford was on to something after all). “Oh, that was a good song,” I’d sometimes exclaim, having caught a couple of notes of an old favorite, but she’d stop me mid-sentence with a withering look.

Then Adele burst onto the scene with “Someone Like You.” The song was incredible. It was incredible on 105.5, incredible on 104.7, incredible on 101.3, and incredible on 95.7. Sometimes it was incredible on all four simultaneously. After a few weeks the song was amazing. It was amazing on 101.3, amazing on 105.5, amazing on 95.7, and amazing on 104.7; it even started showing up on 106.5, not strictly a Top 40 station. It became possible to hop from station to station and catch the song just beginning on one, just ending on another, and playing within a couple of notes of each other on two others. What about the fifth? The song had probably just ended or would begin as soon as the current song was over. A couple more weeks went by and “Someone Like You” was great. It was great on 104.7, great on 105.5, great on 103.9, great on 95.7, and had caught up (or down) to great on 106.5. When several months had passed and it was still playing—“sigh”—on all those stations, we’d look at each other and say, “There’s got to be something else on.”

“I heard that you’re settled down, that you fou…”

“…couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t figh…”

“…oped you’d see my face and that you’d be remi…”

“…asts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.”

“That was Adele with ‘Someone Like You.'”

It was then, when we were nearing “Someone Like You” insanity, that I tentatively said, “We can try the oldies station.” With trepidation Jenny acquiesced. At the time 98.7 was heavy on Fleetwood Mac. Jenny recognized “Dreams,” and whereas she automatically rejected it before, she now decided it wasn’t too bad. And so started her education in some of the songs I’d grown up with.

At first she took 98.7 in small doses, but gradually we began spending more and more time there. As song followed song, I’d tell her the title and the artist. Some songs came with a story or reminiscence. And some songs proved the old adage “history repeats itself.” Take the Doobie Brother’s “Black Water” for instance. The first time we heard it, I told Jenny how much my sister grew to hate that song because when it was first released in 1974, the Florida radio stations played it over and over until you felt you were drowning in that “old black water” that kept “on rollin’” (or as my friend Roz puts it, “the most overplayed song of all time.”). Well, it turns out 98.7 also has a penchant for “Black Water,” and now when we catch those first dulcet strains, my daughter and I smile at each other and then Jenny hits the button.

After awhile the quizzes started. “Ok, who’s this?” I’d ask as songs came on. At first Jen said, “Elton John?” or “Fleetwood Mac?” to every question. Her guess of Elton John was a bit facetious because she knows I love Sir Elton, and in the time before her conversion, whenever we’d hear the first notes of “Tiny Dancer,” “Your Song,” “Bennie and the Jets,” or any of his other hits as she scanned the dial, my gaze would slide to the right and hers to the left and with a bit indulgence she’d let me listen.

Fortunately, the station played enough Fleetwood Mac for her to be right about half the time, and her confidence grew. Then as happens with someone learning a foreign language, it all clicked. She began thinking in 70s and 80s. As soon as a song began, she’d shout out “Rod Stewart” or “Phil Collins” or “The Police” or “the Rolling Stones.” “Yes!” I’d reply. It was like we were playing the old TV game show Name That Tune and she was the defending champion. I couldn’t have been more proud.

Now 98.5 is one of our favorites, and it’s fun hearing the old songs again. Jenny and I also like discussing the differences between songs then and now. While Connecticut stations aren’t so big on disco, we heard plenty during our trip to Hollywood in October. Of course, I’m not sure whether that was an “oldies” station we were listening to or whether South Florida is still stuck in the disco era. Miami did love its disco.

“…you like piña coladas, getting caught in the rain…” We caught this song right at the beginning, so I made Jenny listen to the whole thing even though every fiber of her being told her to scan away. This Rupert Holmes song may not be the best, but it was definitely a phenomenon and has become a classic–or maybe just “Classic.” Oh go ahead – you know you want to:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5_EIikdFr8

I’m thinking that to honor my past I really should put “MacArthur Park” on my iphone. And what the heck—a little KC too. All of this talk about music has also made me think that a little more reminiscing about old songs might be fun. For my next blog I’m going to try something different. I thought I’d invite my friend Roz, whom I’ve known nearly all my life, to discuss songs that made us who we are. If you’d like us to talk about a particular song, let me know in the comments section or on Facebook.

And until next time, “Rock On.”

Here are pictures of David Essex then and now. He’s currently a successful actor in many British productions. My 8th grade teacher, Judy Marsh, would have called him a “silver fox.”This video proves that it is possible to dance and sing in a tiny space without bopping anyone on the head with the mic stand.“Rock On”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fR3hhc_Nfg8

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February was a tough month for art and artists. At the Perez Art Museum in Miami, Maximo Caminero, a disillusioned artist from the local area, smashed one of 16 vases that make up an exhibit by Chinese dissident artist Ai Weiwei. The vases date from the Han dynasty, and Ai painted them in vibrant colors to foster thought about history, cultural heritage, and modern times. In statements to the police Caminero seemed confused, first stating that he did it to protest the fact that the museum only displayed international artists and then that he was acting in solidarity with the Chinese artist, who once similarly smashed one of his own vases as part of another creation. Whatever the reason, the result is one lost piece of art.

Image from Demotix

In a second incident, a cleaning woman in Italy threw away part of an installation that consisted of crumpled newspapers, bent cardboard, and cookie crumbs. She mistook the art, meant to make viewers think about environmental issues, for trash left behind by the set-up crew. Perhaps the piece did its job too well.

Image from Flip Project Space

This is not the first time art has been “straightened up.” In 2001 cleaners at a London gallery tossed away an installation made up of an ashtray, used coffee cups, empty beer bottles, and crushed newspapers. In 1999 Tracey Emin’s piece “My Bed” caught the eye of the judges for the Turner Prize. It also caught the eye of a compulsive neat freak, who made the bed and picked up the area around it.

My Bed by Tracey Emin. Image from Wikipedia

Of course these stories online were followed by comments about modern art, what constitutes art, and the value of these pieces. People also made jokes about never cleaning their houses again or how the floor of their car could be worth thousands of dollars. It’s funny because we all have clutter and never consider it art. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we should.

Reading the articles made me think again about art. I love art and always have. And I’ve analyzed enough literature to know that a red hunting cap is never just a hat or a green light just a fancy light bulb at the end of a pier. So it is with conceptual art. Those cookie crumbs? Depending on the circumstances, crumbs can elicit nostalgia, anger, confusion, hunger, exasperation, longing, laughter. An unmade bed? Everyone from kids to adults have their own interpretation of that. If I had to pick one thing from my house to exhibit it would be my kitchen table. I will never refinish that nicked and scarred masterpiece created with wood and paint, glue and clay, crayons, markers, glitter, and cups of tea worked on every day for 18 years and counting.

I come from a family of artists and photographers, and I’ve always had friends who are artists. Whenever I visited one of my older cousins, I was fascinated by her carousel of pens, pencils, paint, and markers—so much color in the shadowy corner of her desk. Another cousin taught me how to look at life as if through the lens of a camera.

When I was in kindergarten my teacher told my mother I drew well and I started taking art lessons. I can still remember the dream I had the night before my first class: all the students were at tables just like in kindergarten and we drew these amazing things full of color and imagination. I also remember the first art class—the excitement. The disappointment.

I was put in front of an easel and told to copy a round vase that sat on a little table in front of me. I cried. And then I took my charcoal stick and drew a picture of different kinds of fish swimming in the ocean. No color, but plenty of imagination. When I was finished the teacher said it was pretty good. Then I was told to draw the bowl. I did. It pleased the teacher, and my perfect circle amazed the older students. To me it was just a circle.

I continued to take lessons, but I think I learned more about life than I did about how to make art. I called my class “drawing pots and pans” because every week we had to copy another kind of vessel. I get it now, learning perspective and line and shadowing, but at the age of five I didn’t want to be so constricted. I wanted to feel like this:

I still have some of the pictures and paintings I created at that art school all those years ago. Here are two:

Here is the “perfect circle” vase I drew in my first art class. As you can see the flowers maintain their perspective through a 5-year-old’s eyes.

The only thing I think about when I see this painting I did when I was 8 or 9 is how my instructor sat on my stool and, while showing me how to paint with a palette knife, got so carried away with his own prowess that he practically finished the painting for me. You can probably tell what parts I did and what parts he did. So, my painting? Not so much.

I also have a portfolio filled with doodles and drawings I’ve done at home over the years. I hadn’t looked inside it for many years, so I pulled the heavy case out of the closet the other night and took a peek.

I had forgotten so much—of what the portfolio held, what I’ve done, and whom I’ve been. Over the years that case has become a catch-all for postcards from friends, comic strips worth keeping, souvenirs, prints I’ve hung on walls of dorm rooms and apartments, and my own work, both written and drawn.

Here’s just a sampling:

(A special note—It’s okay to laugh. I do it myself. I can see the problems—I just don’t know how to fix them.)

I embroidered this for an art project in 5th or 6th grade, using a variety of stitches. Our art teacher, Mrs. Rhinehart, gave me a B. (How could she give that smile a B?) A boy in my class named Alex was so incensed by the injustice of it that he grabbed it and ran into Mrs. Rhinehart’s classroom to plead my case. He wasn’t successful, but he was sweet.

I had forgotten about this picture I drew while in high school. It has a certain happy, linear quality I still like.

“Oh yeah,” Jenny said about this one. “You were obsessed with gas stations.” Actually, as a child I just liked the homey look of these old places I saw while driving through small towns on our yearly trip from Hollywood to St. Louis. They were so different from what I grew up with. Besides, drawing the screens in that door and window was oddly therapeutic.

These three I copied from black and white photographs:

Here’s a picture of my mother and me, au natural, looking into a mirror at our house in Connecticut.

This is my sister and my father washing dishes in the house we rented when we first moved to Hollywood, Fla. I have two memories from this house:1. The swing set in the backyard.2. My sister launching herself over the head of our bouncy hobby horse and chipping her tooth on the tile floor.Drawing folds in material is not really my forte.

This picture of me and my baby sister in our Oshkosh overalls is my favorite.

I’ve made my own environmental statements. I drew this for an art appreciation course I took in college—a small school “nestled in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains” far away from the spread of “retail farms” in South Florida.

For those of you who might wonder why I didn’t pursue art more seriously, I offer Exhibit 1. Evidence that I have no natural affinity for perspective:

I would hate to meet this baby in a dark alley, as they say. Jenny was gracious when we stopped laughing at it. She said maybe I could have gotten a job at Pixar and reminded me of the first baby the artists there created for the short Tin Toy.

Pixar’s first foray into creating a digital baby for the short Tin Toy. This baby is a little scary too.

I still love creating things, but these days they look more like these guys:

And now I will leave you with my favorite portrait ever.

This Polish Nobleman hangs in the National Gallery in Washington DC. I memorized the route to the particular gallery where this hangs because I was fascinated about a man who would let Rembrandt paint him with such a frazzled, befuddled expression. Maybe he didn’t think much of Rembrandt or maybe he was distracted by worries over his standing with the king or his wife or maybe he wondered if he had crumbs in his mustache.

Like this:

The wild fluctuations in temperatures recently—from 9° to 55° in the same week—coupled with the distinctly March/April tinge to the rainy days, have put Jenny and me in the mood for a little spring cleaning lately.

Mostly, Jenny wanted to purge some of the knick-knacks she’s outgrown or that are taking up valuable real estate in her room. Sometimes we do this together—it’s a nice opportunity for mother/daughter bonding and to take a little trip down memory lane before certain items are stored away for posterity or deposited of permanently for sanity. Of course, as these things do, a doll led to a diary, which led to a search for the keys, and finally Jenny opened her jewelry box. “Oh, here are those earrings we were talking about the other day,” she said, dropping two small pearl studs into my palm. And so I too opened my jewelry box.

There’s something fascinating about a jewelry box with all its ornaments of the past mingling with current fads or favorite pieces in enticing drawers, velvety trays, and divided compartments—your history traced in gold and silver, real gems and cubic zirconium. And each shiny (or tarnished) bauble elicits an immediate and vivid memory of where, when, and how you acquired or wore it. Some of the pieces are beautiful, classic, enduring, while others are like the shag haircut—“what could I have been thinking?”

So on that day as I placed the studs Jenny had borrowed back in my box, I took a closer look, wondering how far back my jewelry would take me. I found pieces from my college days, and then from high school. Could I have worn these in elementary school? I asked myself as I picked up a pair of earrings. And then I was astounded to rediscover a birthstone ring I had been given as a baby by one of my aunts who was also my godmother. You can’t go back much farther than that.

Next on the timeline are the studs my ears were pierced with when I was five. I can still remember my pediatrician Dr. Tanis waltzing across the examining room with a Q-tip dipped in iodine to deposit a dot on my earlobes where the hole would be made. Dr. Tannis was the comedian out of the four doctors in the practice—and the one the patients liked best—so he was in charge of this most frightening and traumatic event. I remember laughing at his ridiculous dance, but nothing about the procedure. Jenny had her ears pierced when she was five too, but at Claire’s in the Chrystal Mall. The young women there did an excellent job, and only one small tear rimmed Jenny’s eyes (but never fell) as she bravely anticipated the second hole.

My studs are in the back. Jenny’s will always sparkle, just like she does.

And here is some more of the jewelry I’ve worn over the years and which for one reason or another I just could not part with:

This was absolutely my favorite pin when I was a child. I loved how tiny and cute it was.

This jaunty sailor is painted on a small beach stone. I bought it in a gift shop in Essex, CT on vacation one summer. My sister bought this determined, straw-haired girl.

I had a similar necklace with a pink pig on it that I wore every day in first or second grade until I lost it on the playground. This perpetually surprised rabbit replaced it, but I don’t remember wearing it as much.

These name bracelets and initial safety pins were so popular in the 70s. I didn’t usually go in for fads, but I guess the lure was just too strong!

I loved American history and this tricorn hat necklace I bought on a trip to Williamsburg the summer between freshman and sophomore year of high school.

The Pandora of necklaces. I still like the moon and star charm, but what is it with girls and unicorns?

I received this ring for my 16th birthday.

Jenny took one look at these and said, “70s.”

I don’t remember when I wore these, and I’m not sure I want to.

These earrings may not be fancy, but their story always makes me smile.

My mom had this locket made for me when I finished my Independent Study paper in my Senior Year of college. My Thesis was on the novels of Samuel Beckett and was titled The Infinite Pilgrimage. I’m still on mine.

As a writer I can find themes in almost every aspect of daily life, and it’s no different in my jewelry box:

I wore these orange turtles often as a child, thus the peeling paint; the green ones were a gift from a boyfriend in college. How did he know?

You can take a girl’s ears away from the ocean, but you can’t take the ocean away from a girl’s ears.

I guess people have always fascinated me, whether in real life, books, or, apparently, pinned to my clothes or dangling from my ears.

These pins would look right at home in a frame on the wall.

As Jenny rummaged through her jewelry box, she pulled out this necklace. “I always thought this said ‘I heart dinosaurs’,” she laughed, “but look.”

And there he is – the lucky one!

I think this just may be one of those pieces she will not part with.

How about you? Do you have pieces of jewelry that make you smile or laugh or even cringe? We’d love to see them! Show us and tell us about them.

Like this:

Nothing strikes more dread in the hearts of my family than these two words: Pepparkakor cookies. Pepparkakor cookies are a traditional Swedish Christmas cookie, and years ago my father’s Aunt Mildred, a bustling dynamo of kitchen domination, handed down her recipe to any takers. We now all realize that her generosity was just a ruse to keep us from forgetting her. As if we could.

Stories of Aunt Mildred were legend. The most telling, perhaps, was about the speed with which she cleared the table—if she had eaten her last bite, you had eaten your last bite, and she whisked your plate away even if your fork was halfway to your mouth and your plate half full. Of course, she was also famous for her Pepparkakor.

Made correctly these cookies are paper-thin, zesty morsels of deliciousness, and herein lies the rub: No one could make them like Mildred. Under Mildred’s deft hands the dough was pliable and easily rolled. It yielded to the cookie cutters and dropped onto the baking sheet in perfect shapes. The finished cookies were crisp and flakey and flavorful. But for anyone else? Not so much.

Once, one of her nieces even stood over her as she made the cookies, convinced Mildred had “forgotten” to reveal an important ingredient or technique, only to report with consternation that she had been faithful to the recipe. And so the gauntlet was thrown, and every year my mother, my sister, and I tried to recreate Mildred’s magic.

Now, TV commercials and magazines present a holiday kitchen where a mother and her adorable children, all smiling ear to ear, pour chocolate chips into some unseen batter (while nibbling a few through nose-crinkling giggles), slice perfect rounds off a log of pre-made and pre-decorated dough, or press a Hershey kiss into the middle of an enchanting mound.

Ask my mother about Pepparkakor cookies and her eyes roll, her lips become a thin, grim line, and her head shakes in defeat. I, on the other hand, begin laughing a little too hysterically. And my sister? She doesn’t want to talk about it. As readers of this blog know, I grew up in South Florida where the average temperature in December is 75 and the humidity 70%. The recipe for Pepparkakor calls for the dough to be refrigerated overnight. It also includes a half cup of molasses, and it is to this consistency that the dough returned 5 minutes after hitting the Florida air.

Yet, we persevered. Flour was liberally “sprinkled” on the rolling cloth. Flour was liberally applied to the rolling pin. Flour rimmed the assembled cookie cutters. And so it began. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like a frustration-fueled fuming fest:

Ugh! It’s so sticky! I can’t roll it.

Well, put more flour on the board.

That’s not helping.

Thinner, they’re supposed to be thin. Thin!

This is as thin as I can get them!

Here, let me do it. Give me the rolling pin.

But the dough’s all stuck on the cloth!

Well, put more flour on it.

They’re going to taste terrible!

Just do it!

Seeee?

All right. Scrape it off. We’ll do it again.

Uuhuhughh!

Just let me do it! Well, I guess this is the best we can do. But look how thick it is!

Just cut them!

The cookies’re sticking to the board! I can’t get them off!

Use this knife!

They’re getting ruined! Why do we even make these stupid things?

This is a stupid looking reindeer. It looks like a fish.

And what’s that? Santa’s supposed to be fat not the angel!

I’m never doing this again!

Here, let me help.

No, I can do it! I can do it!

Finally, we got the first batch into the oven. While they baked we gathered the scraps and rolled out more. Adding to the lunacy was my mother’s insistence that we waste not even the tiniest bit of dough. If there was a cookie cutter to fit, we had to use it.

This process took all day. At the end we were exhausted, dripping with sweat, and covered in flour. We gazed at the finished products feeling the collective taint of disappointment, regret, and the disapproving eyes of Aunt Mildred. But we had two jars of cookies, and if they were a bit thick, still white with flour, and oddly misshapen, they still tasted good to us. And we needn’t have worried about Mildred. She was probably ordering the angels around the heavenly kitchen or chuckling over our plight. Either way she would have been happy.

Plus, there was always next year. Somehow, we always forgot the pain and suffering that went into making them the way women forget the trauma of childbirth so they can have more children.

Over the years the tradition of baking cookies gave way to busier schedules. But it seems my daughter Jenny has inherited Mildred’s baking genes (but not her steamroller personality, thank goodness), and so the other night the subject of the Pepperkakor cookies came up again. I realized as I laughingly related my tales of woe that the lure of the perfect Pepperkakor had not faded, but was only hibernating until a more able baker prevailed.

Jenny was game, so she whipped up the batter and put it in the refrigerator. No dithering over the ingredients. No burden of history. I, and my bad vibes, stayed out of the way. The next day we rolled them out. The dough spread easily, with just a true sprinkling of flour, to the required 1/8th inch and even thinner. No screaming. No panic. She and I took turns with the cookie cutters—the same ones I used as a child. No morphed angels, no fish-reindeer. These Pepparkakor baked up glossy brown, crispy, and flavorful. The whole thing took less than 2 hours.

Silicone rolling mats and rolling pins help as do cooler temperatures and alligator-skin humidity levels. But the real difference, I believe, is that Jenny has the magic. For myself? The no-fuss, efficient success this year felt triumphant and fun. But, as I also relish the absurd, the debacles of the past continue to assert a certain humorous charm. The best news, though, is that Pepparkakor are back on the traditional cookie list for another generation. I hope Aunt Mildred is pleased to pass her rolling pin to a kindred spirit.

My daughter and I recently returned to the scene of my formative years, Hollywood, Florida, which of course meant: Air Travel. Now, we all know what Air Travel entails these days what with removing shoes, removing belts, removing computers, removing phones, removing liquids, the x-ray body scan, the pat down, liquids retrieval, phone retrieval, computer retrieval , belt retrieval, and shoes retrieval. Years ago when all of this started, you’d think we were preparing for dates with the security agents it took us so long to perform these tasks. We redressed carefully, reorganized our bags with precision, and checked and rechecked the bins.

Now, we’re all like contestants on some kind of TSA “beat the clock” game show: “John S. Pistole—TSA Head—I can completely disassemble and reassemble my packing in three-point-oh-four seconds!” Afterwards, as we sprint for the gate, our clothes are askew and our laces untied, our bags hang open, and if we leave something in the bin, so be it. We can always buy another.

My favorite passengers in the security line were the two 2-year olds behind us. When the snappish security agent told their mother that their teddy-bear harnesses had to go and she removed them from their tiny shoulders, they let out a combined wail that could’ve been heard all the way to the office of Homeland Security. This act of Civil Disobedience got them a straight shot through the electronic scanner to freedom. You go, toddlers! I’ll tell you, my role models are getting younger and younger.

My least favorite? The brittle, blond woman in front of us who was donned from head to toe in black and metal. Metal ? Really??! As the family in front of her frantically unpacked, she clutched her black-and-bling bag, shook her jangling wrists, tapped her studded stilettos, fiddled with her chain-link belt, and emitted exasperated sighs while completely ignoring the empty bins in front of her. When I asked if she had anything to unpack, she fixed me with her withering gaze, rolled her eyes toward the encumbered family and sighed, “Yes, but….”

Of course as you might imagine, when she finally answered the golden invitation she’d been awaiting, her chain-mail ensemble required repeated trips through the x-ray machine and caused much consternation among the agents, holding up the line much longer than the hapless family ever did.

Once on the plane, I immediately reached for the SkyMall catalog. SkyMall is a mastery of marketing savvy. Opening the cover is like coming home. Or like coming home to the home you wish you were coming home to. This home is filled with handcrafted wine from “America’s most trusted wine club” and portable power gadgets that guarantee “you will never be without power again.” Yes!, I said to myself, world dominance is mine! I was feeling pretty good about things.

But then the flight attendant gave the spiel about how the only time we may look forward to clean oxygen during the flight is if the plane goes into a death spiral, and the cabin began filling with stale, diesel-y, germ-laden air. I moved on to the next SkyMall entry: “ThunderShirts.” ThunderShirts are tiny jackets for “calming pets distressed by fear or anxiety.”

The bad air and two inches of personal space were starting to take their effect, but I was still aware enough to wonder: “Is this what life in America has come to? What could frighten our animals so much that they need straightjackets to cope?” Then, just as I was about to pass out, I saw this: “NEW! Abominable Snowman Yeti Statue.” This life size (72”H x 45”W x 38”D; $2,350.00) “ape-like Bigfoot” is designed to be “innovative garden décor,” a “unique holiday decoration” (I can’t believe the Yetiday decorations are already out in stores, it’s not even Nessie Day! And remember: Keep “Yeti” in Yetiday.), or an “office mascot.” I jolted awake because I realized that all over America people have picked up the phone or visited the website to buy this and that pets have every right to be afraid…to be very afraid.

With the promise of these kinds of quality items, how could I not turn the page?Looking for an activity where you and your friends can knock yourselves unconscious without the aid of drinking games? Try “The Human Slingshot” which involves “four people slinging each other back and forth within a human sized stretchable band.” **

**Attending EMTs cost extra

Tired of those thin lips that come with age or from intense grimacing while watching Congress attempt to pass legislation or while trying to log onto HealthCaredotgov? Stop agonizing! You can get fuller, more beautiful lips in seconds with these suction cups specially shaped to “enhance your whole mouth or only the center.” Didn’t they used to lance boils this way?

Ok, so I was having a hard time deciding what to buy when I turned to the back pages and saw this: “Mounted Squirrel Head.” Bingo! This is just the thing I need to hang next to the bird feeder as a warning to others. But then I thought our wily squirrels would probably use their poor, fallen comrade as a spring board to the feeder. After all, there’s no honor among thieves.

Suddenly, the flight attendant was back on the intercom. She told us we could resume use of our electronic devices and that the seat pocket in front of us should be used for “light reading material” only. Again, I was thrown into a quandary. Oh why does Air Travel have to be so hard these days?

On my lap sat the book I’d brought along—All the King’s Men. It is the “Restored Edition” of the 1947 Pulitzer Prize winning novel by Robert Penn Warren. Did this qualify as “light reading material,” I wondered? It’s not War and Peace, but still the issues in it are pretty weighty. If I put it in the pocket, would it bring down the plane? Did I dare risk it?

By this time I was feeling a bit shaky and wishing I had one of those ThunderShirts. I turned the page in SkyMall and there in front of me was the answer to another burning question about Air Travel—what happens to all the clothes left behind in the security line? It is cut apart and sewn together with other lost garments. The result is the “One Of A Kind” shirt. This “piece of art” (take that Picasso!) allows you to “show that you’re a little different than everyone else and want them to take notice.”

Looking closely at the picture, a few things came to mind. First, I would also have given this an “F.” Second, it seems someone did take notice: Is that a black eye?Did he get it fighting to acquire the shirt or because he was wearing the shirt? And third, could they possibly have paid him enough to model it? My head was swimming with these thoughts when the guy in front of me reclined his seat back even further and brain fog came over me again.

I picked up my book, opened the seat pocket, and slipped it in. I really needed some oxygen.

A recent research study conducted on lab rats by students and a professor of psychology at Connecticut College in New London, Connecticut has found that Oreo cookies are just as addictive as cocaine. In the experiments, rats were given Oreos on one side of a maze while on the other side they were fed a control of rice cakes. In a comparative study, rats were given cocaine or morphine on one side of the maze and saline on the other. Researchers discovered that when given a choice, the rats fed Oreos spent as much time on the “drug” side of the maze as those given cocaine or morphine.

The results of this study are no surprise to me. In fact, the only surprising thing is that the purchase of “America’s favorite cookie” hasn’t long ago been relegated to back alleys and furtive handoffs. It is an opinion forged through long, personal suffering.

My tragic story goes back to my college days and, like thousands of others, began innocently enough. The specter of Oreos, I realize now, was always in my consciousness. I grew up, if you remember from my first post, in South Florida, where Oreos pour into the state through the easy access of highways, byways, and waterways like mosquitoes after a rainy spring. The police and Coast Guard do their best to thwart these operations, but it seems there’s no limit to the desperadoes willing to risk it all for the big bucks, flashy cars, gaudy jewelry, ostentatious mansions, and freewheeling lifestyle Oreo trafficking provides.

Despite the pervasive temptation of these sweet treats, I survived my childhood and teenage years unscathed, preferring the comforting sway of iced tea and Chips Ahoy. I see, now, that I had been kidding myself and was already on the slippery slope, awaiting only the freedom of college to be undone. All the backgammon games, racquetball matches, pep rallies, football games, coffeehouses, poetry slams, trips to the mountains, trips to Knoxville, movie nights, and—oh, yes—reading, papers, and exams took their toll. How to cope?

I had heard “help” was available, but I was naïve in how to procure it. And then one night, during a friendly game of backgammon, my roommate pulled out a suspicious package and placed it between us. I was shocked, having always believed her only vice was the Swisher Sweet cigars she smoked while making reeds for her oboe.

I have to admit, however, that the pack’s alluring blue wrapper curiously attracted me. Without ceremony, my roommate ripped it open and pulled out what was to become my obsession and my nemesis. With practiced efficiency she separated the two chocolate cookies with a single twist and licked up the white creamy center. I was at once repelled and fascinated.

“Want one?” she asked, waggling one in front of me.

What I should have done was run from the room. I should have prayed for strength. I should have Just Said No. But I had two backgammon checkers on the bar and my roommate had already removed three from the board, and in a moment of weakness, I said, “Sure.” Actually, I said, “Sure!”

She handed me the cookie and I took a bite. “No! Not like that!” my roommate cried out. Immediately, I again felt the sting of the uncool. My high school career came flooding back to me in a hallucinatory rush. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be that geeky girl with the glasses, permed hair, lucky knee socks, and straight A’s in Modern European History anymore. I wanted to taste all life had to offer. I grabbed the top and bottom of the cookie and twisted.

The smooth, creamy filling was a revelation. I felt energized, invincible. I reached for another one and attacked the game with new verve. A quarter of the bag later, I had won in a series of frenzied, inspired moves. I was hooked.

The years sped by in an Oreo-fueled haze. I fell in with a bad crowd, dragging my sister along for the ride. We spent weekend nights trolling the dimly lit aisles of Food City, pooling our money for a much needed fix. At first one bag was enough to meet everyone’s needs, but soon only an entire bag per person satisfied our cravings.

No all-nighter was complete without the motivation and inspiration those chocolate rounds supplied. We didn’t care if we woke up in a pile of strewn wrappers and crumpled row dividers; we hardly noticed the thick cream that matted our hair; and we felt no shame in picking crumbs out of the carpet for breakfast. We knew we would Ace those exams, and we knew what to thank for it.

You might think someone would have intervened, but I was wily. The Tab kept me thin, I always carefully dusted myself of any lingering crumbs, and I kept my grades up. In fact the saccharine stimulation only made the Old English of Beowulf, the Early Modern English of Shakespeare, and the Modern-But-Still-Incomprehensible English of James Joyce all the easier to understand. Even the hair style managed by the lead singer of Flock of Seagulls made sense.

Finally, though, I hit bottom. All my friends deserted me, and I realized in feverish horror that I had racked up substantial debts and could no longer afford my decadent lifestyle. When I got clean and the sugary demon no longer fogged my brain, I discovered this was called “Graduation.”

It’s been many years since those unfortunate days, and I’ve never looked back. At Stop & Shop I’m never tempted as I stroll down the cookie aisle, even if my eye does wander over to the shelf of designer Oreos now available to unsuspecting consumers. I’ve dedicated myself to a healthy lifestyle. In fact, I’m on my way to the gym right now for a game of racquetball, and on the way home I’ll stop off for a Mocha Frappuccino.